


long way for bare feet on broken glass

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x06, Coda, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:30:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>9x06 coda. what happened in those missing moments between nighttime at nora's and daytime at the gas'n'sip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	long way for bare feet on broken glass

**Author's Note:**

> everyone else and their grandmothers are writing one. figured i'd throw my hat into the ring as well.

“So, where to?” Dean asks.

Cas doesn’t know. He sits in silence. He has more important things on his mind.

“Hey, earth to Cas,” Dean says, and yeah, bad choice of words.

Dean pulls away from the house, probably because he’s afraid it would look weird for them to sit too long in one place after supposedly saying goodbye to Nora. They reach a stop sign at the end of the street, and it’s late enough that there’s no other cars around. Dean turns to him again.

“Cas,” Dean says, again, more pointed this time. Then, “Your hand is fucked up, man. I can take you to the hospital, or if you want, we can fix it up back at my room.”

It’s depressing how quickly Cas’ head jerks up at the mention of _my room_. It’s even more depressing when Cas realizes that Dean meant his hotel room, not the bunker, and his heart plummets into his stomach. (He idly thinks about how not a couple months ago he would have questioned the saying. Minus a horrible accident, it would be impossible. He’s savvied up by now, though. He knows the feeling. Has known it too often already in his short human existence.)

Dean seems to realize his slip up, because he immediately follows up with, “I booked a room for the night at this skeevy place on the way into town,” and it’s said hastily, like Dean doesn’t want Cas to get the wrong idea.

Really, Cas isn’t sure this is a good idea. It’s been hard enough dancing around the issue of Dean kicking him out of the bunker without outright exploding (justifiably so, perhaps) at his best friend. Cas isn’t sure an extended length of time in an enclosed space like a motel room is going to do him any favors in this matter.

But on the other, more practical side of things, Cas’ wrist is probably sprained, and even though Nora helped clean up the slice on his palm (tripped and cut it on the corner of the table, he’d told her) he can see blood through the bandages wrapped around his hand. He probably needs stitches.

He hasn’t learned how to do any of this yet, and a whisper in the back of his mind tells him he never will if he stays at the gas’n’sip for the rest of his life.

“No hospital,” Cas says, because he’s tired and isn’t sure he’s up for the florescent lights of the waiting room. He’s tired of filling out forms with false information and if there’s a baby crying he’s not sure he’s going to make it. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s voluntarily _choosing_ to come back to Dean’s room, but rather a hardship forced upon him for lack of better options.

Even as a human, he thinks ruefully, he’s stupidly proud. Apparently Metatron can take his grace, but not the characteristics associated with it.

It doesn’t change the fact that Dean kicked him out sans explanation, and is now inviting him back in.

Dean nods, mouth tight, and they drive in silence to the outskirts of town. Cas’ wrist is throbbing, and while he felt pain as an angel, there’s a fragility to pain as a human that he’s still getting used to. It takes much less than an angel blade to pierce him, now.

As they trundle into the motel room, Cas is suddenly hit with the dizzying notion that Dean and Sam and most other hunters probably feel like this on an almost daily basis. The physical pain, the mental stress, the feeling of having an enemy able to see right inside you. (He pushes away the thought that he used to be able to see inside Dean, used to be able to at least sense his emotions vaguely, his state of mind.) He doesn’t have that luxury anymore, and wonders how humans do it. Friendship just seems to be based on the mutual trust between two people that the other is worthy, is who they say they are.

Friendship is based on faith, he realizes.

Dean begins to dig through his medical kit, and ushers Cas to sit on the end of the bed.

“Dean,” Cas says as he gently cradles Cas’ hand in his palm, and Dean looks up dizzyingly fast.

“Yeah?”

“How do you, ah, deal with it?” Cas asks, and has to visibly restrict himself from using finger quotes. He’ll get the hang of those, one day, too.

Dean looks back down at his palm, and then up at Cas again.

“The pain?” he clarifies, and starts to dab Cas’ palm with a solution that stings, making Cas grit his teeth. “You just gotta suck it up, dude.”

“No,” Cas shakes his head, “That’s not what I meant.” He gestures with his other hand, unsure of the appropriate one. “I mean…” And he trails off, uncertain. Dean’s looking at him again, and he tries to communicate just what he _means_ with his eyes, with the feelings he has churning in his gut, but doesn’t have the words for. “This,” he finishes quietly, accompanying gesture perhaps fittingly small.

Dean licks his lips, casts his gaze downwards.

“You mean being human? Living?” He asks hollowly, and gives a chuckle that doesn’t imply he’s heard something humorous. “Cas, man, I am not the one you should be asking.” He’s pulling gauze out of the bag, eyes firmly focused on it as he speaks. “I can show you how to cook a burger, how to shoot a gun straighter than you’ve ever shot one, how to hack security cameras and charm the waitress at a roadside diner, but I can’t… I can’t teach you that.” He says, and he sounds like he truly regrets it. “I’m not the kind of human you want to be taking serious, ‘how to Stepford’ lessons from.”

Cas worries his bottom lip, a habit he’s picked up since falling. He’s not sure where from, maybe from nowhere. Maybe it’s just a _thing_ he _does_.

“Dean,” Cas says, quieter than the first time. Dean doesn’t look up until he’s finished stitching Cas’ hand, until he’s set Cas’ wrist with gentle fingers. It’s not bad enough for a cast, but it still hurts.

“Dean,” Cas says again, a little more firmly.

Dean sits beside Cas on the bed, hands braced on his knees as if he’s about to push himself into a sprint.

“I’m sorry I kicked you out, Cas. I’m sorry I can’t tell you why. And I’m _really_ fucking sorry I can’t teach you all the most important things about being human. About being happy and fulfilled and fucking content.”

The reason being, Cas figures, is because Dean is none of these things.

The thing is, Cas knows he needs to learn about humanity outside of Dean. He’s aware of the fact that he should experience things without Dean, without the Winchesters, so he can figure out who he is on his own terms.  It doesn’t change the fact, however, that Dean is his best friend (friendship is faith, right?). It also doesn’t change the fact that there are things Cas admires about Dean, things Cas would ardently like to learn from no one _but_ Dean.  What he’s currently trying to convey is one of them.

“Ephraim didn’t just affect me physically,” Castiel says, slowly and parsing it out as he goes, “He saw into me. Like a-” he pauses, searching for words. “Like an invasion,” he comes up with, and it kind of startles him, but he can’t say that it doesn’t fit.

“And you-” he inclines his head Dean’s way, “For decades, have been doing this. Have been fighting beings that can not only harm you physically, but can get into your head and… hurt you. In a different way.”

Dean’s looking at him solemnly, the gravity of the conversation obviously affecting him. Cas hopes he’s not bringing up any unwanted memories by talking about it, but he knows this isn’t something he can just go research or talk to a health care professional about. This is intrinsically linked to hunting, to hurting, and therefore linked to Dean.

“What Ephraim did to me-” Cas stops himself for a moment, has to internally debate whether to voice this weakness or not. Dean won’t judge him for it. Dean probably knows what it feels like. Regardless, his last words comes out as hesitant, “- unsettled me.” That’s an understatement.

Dean shakes his head, but not in rejection of Castiel’s statement. It feels more like solidarity.

“Cas, man,” Dean scrubs at his jaw, and Cas hears the rasp of stubble against fingertips in the quiet of the room. “It’s not an easy gig. Really, it’ll fuck you up.” He laughs, and again, it’s still not funny. “Most hunters are so fucking ill-adjusted that if you tried to shove them back into normal life, they’d probably be eating bullets and wearing tin foil hats for the rest of their lives. Hell, I know my stint in suburbia didn’t exactly turn me into Mr. Neighborhood.” He pauses, considers. “I’m not normal, Cas. Sam’s not normal. We were raised to be serial killers. Whether it’s monsters or people doesn’t even matter. We were raised murderers, and most humans are raised to say please and thank you at the dinner table.”

Dean’s gaze on Cas hasn’t wavered, and it almost sounds like he’s pleading when he next starts talking.

“The amount of times I’ve gotten thrown into walls and smashed into floors and bones broken and fingers dislocated; fuck, Cas, I’m a walking punching bag most of the time. You need to know that that’s not how most humans live their lives. I mean, fuck, how many times have I slit my own palm open to give blood? Or my forearm? That’s not how it works out in the ‘real world’.”

Dean actually uses the air quotes around ‘real world’ and Cas can’t help but smile. It’s genuine, but short lived, and Dean manages a ghost of a smile in return, even though his eyes remain tired.

“What Ephraim did to you tonight sucks. And that’s not even to mention the reason he came for you in the first place.” Dean’s eyes turn knowing, pained. “I know this gig ain’t what you wanted, but it’s what you got stuck with. The spell is irreversible, Cas.” Dean admits, and Cas is too numb to do nothing more but accept it with a pinched brow and resigned nod.  He should have figured as much, but he’s been doing his best to avoid thinking about Metatron and his lost grace and his cut throat, for this exact reason.

“Oh,” Cas finally says, just to say something.

“But I’m here for you,” Dean says immediately, and then cringes, because the unsaid ending to that sentence is, _so long as you’re not there at the bunker_. “And you need to know that you have options. That you don’t _have_ to be a hunter. You don’t have to fight the big fight. If you’d rather move to Vermont and open that B &B and forget we ever existed for your own peace of mind, man, I _get it_. Some days, I wish I had the option to forget we ever existed, too.” There’s something simmering beneath Dean’s words, and Cas can’t put his finger on what it is. It’s like a combination of regret and wistfulness and resignation that makes it feel like there’s a fist squeezing around Cas’ lungs, like he’s having trouble breathing.

“I don’t want that, Dean,” he whispers, because if there’s one thing he knows for sure, vehemently, it’s that he doesn’t want to forget Dean ever existed. Dean is the _reason_ for so many things, if Cas forgot him, it would be like forgetting the beginning the of the most important story in the world.

“You’ve fought for so long,” Cas continues, and in a sudden overflow of emotion, he rests his hand over top of Dean’s battered knuckles (because they’re never _not_ battered). “You’ve had so many awful things done to you, and yet here you are, still undeniably _you_. Still good.”

Dean’s shaking his head again, but this time in disagreement.

“Cas, I’m-”

“Dean.” Cas cuts in, firm. “Don’t.” He bites the inside of his cheek, wills himself to calm down. He starts tracing patterns on Dean’s knuckles, feather light. “I’m mad at you,” he says softly. “For a lot of things, maybe.” Dean’s whole posture stiffens, but Cas continues his ministrations with his good hand, focusing intently on the feel of Dean’s skin beneath his. “And you’re probably mad at me for a lot of things, and rightly so.”

“Cas,” Dean starts again, choked up. “Cas, if it’s what you want, we can work it out. Whatever you want.”

“But what do _you_ want, Dean?” Cas asks, “You offer me the option to get out. You offer me beds and breakfasts in Vermont and a normal human life. You say that you’ll never get these things, and yet you offer them to me. Dean, when I said that I expected you and Sam to be good teachers, I _meant_ it. _What do you want_?” He asks again, so incredibly intent, “Teach me how to tell you what I want by returning the favor.”

 It’s the last thing Cas expects to happen, but in retrospect, maybe it was the most obvious, if the last half decade is anything to go by.

Dean surges forward and kisses him, and Cas’ mind goes horrifyingly blank for a moment. He forgets to move his lips, forgets he _has_ lips, and then Dean’s breaking away, eyes wide as saucers.

“Fuck,” he says, breathing hard. They stare at each other for a moment, Cas’ brain still working to catch up, and Dean starts to close off, and he’s turning away, muttering, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” over and over again. “Cas, man, I’m so-”

But Cas grabs his wrist with his good hand, presses the palm of his bandaged hand to Dean’s cheek. He gently brings Dean forward again, slots their lips together slowly, feeling his way around. Up close, Cas keeps his eyes open, and he’s probably gone cross eyed, and he thinks it’s considered bad kissing form to keep one’s eyes open, but he really doesn’t care.  That’s just him and Dean, condensed, isn’t it? Ripping up the rules from the getgo.

He moves his good hand to Dean’s back, guides him down onto the bed. He straddles him, and while it’s not exactly burning passion fuelling the fire, it’s a slow burn; appropriate, really, since it took them so long to get here.

At one point, Dean presses his forehead to Cas’, hands framing his face, and it sounds like he’s in great pain when he whispers, “It’s not going to be easy, Cas. If you choose this, it’s not going to be fucking easy at all.”

And Cas kisses him, tries to kiss the pain away even though he knows he can’t, and says, “I never asked for easy.”

“It’s going to hurt,” Dean continues, like he hasn’t heard, or like he’s trying to scare Cas away. Their noses are barely an inch apart, hair dishevelled, lips spit shiny, and Cas’ hair is tickling Dean’s forehead, “I know you’re like, a million years old, but this is going to be different. It’s hard enough living a normal life, but when you have all this extra crap piled on top? It’s a big dark hole that you get sucked into, and once you’re in, you’re in for good. Even if you get out.” He threads his hand through Cas’ hair, cradles his skull, “I need you to understand that,” he breathes, looking at Cas so reverently he suddenly feels like a brittle, breakable thing.

Dean doesn’t know about what Naomi did to him. In fact, Dean doesn’t know about a lot of things.

Cas will have to tell him.

But Cas also doesn’t know about a lot of things. About a lot of human things.

Dean will have to tell him.

Cas thinks, maybe it’s appropriate. He pulled Dean from hell a long time ago (in human years, anyways, and that’s what he’s dealing in these days as well.) In a less literal sense, Dean pulled him from heaven. It would only make sense that they’d have to meet in the middle.

“I understand,” Cas promises into Dean’s lips, because while he can’t predict just exactly where and in how many ways this life is going to break him, he knows for sure that he doesn’t want to open a fucking B&B in Vermont. Not unless Dean is there with him.

They will have to teach each other. 


End file.
